Marcus Caravahlo (_caravahlo_) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-03-05 09:47:00 |
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The dreams were fucking up his sleep cycle. It wasn't late, but it felt like it was three in the morning. Working graves didn't help, and Marcus found himself wandering around in a haze, as if drugged. He wasn't used to remembering his dreams, but the ones he'd been having lately were particularly vivid, finding ways to infect his waking thoughts as well as the subconscious. Getting to sleep usually meant succumbing to fitful, sex-fueled fantasies. And when he showered after waking, he couldn't shake the vision of the dog vomiting blood at his feet. Ants in his fucking brain, indeed.
But the books sure as fuck didn't have anything to do with it. He only had the one from the hospital room, still. The others hadn't been at her place, and he hadn't yet had a chance to ask around about them. If she was telling the truth about Rob York being the one to find her, then it was possible Rob had taken them. Rarely in the mood to deal with Rob, Marcus wasn't exactly eager to make that phone call. He was even less eager to talk to Belli about it. By the time he had a day off during which he could have gone to the shop, the whole thing about the books had grown even more paranoid than it had initially sounded. Unable to help himself, Marcus had flipped through the paperback... part of him even hoped it would hook him, somehow... force his mind to focus on something else. But the words on the pages didn't resonate with him in any specific way. It seemed like overwrought science fiction to him. Flowery, melodramatic, and altogether dull. Even the bits he'd found with sex seemed alien and detached, rather than enticing. He didn't get it. He sure as hell didn't become obsessed with it.
That didn't mean he wasn't going to give the books back to the shop, of course. Marcus had every intention of keeping his word on that. He just couldn't exactly do it without having all of the books, or talking to Belli. The broken blonde on the hospital bed had made it sound as though she were under some kind of curse that only the antique dealer could lift. Make him take them back. The sick thing about it was that it didn't seem all that far-fetched. Marcus didn't think the books were magic, but he could believe something was fucked up about Sam Belli. The man had, after all, given him a human skull in exchange for a dead dog. That was fucked. And he'd agreed to it, which was even more fucked.
The dreams weren't a curse brought on by some fucking antique dealer, though, anymore than they were triggered by the book. It was a hard mix of guilt and abstinence, nothing magical about it, and it was playing off all the shit in his brain that had been building for some time. Excising it was just a matter of taking control of his thoughts. He needed to gain some perspective. Analyze. Diagnosis before treatment.
Easier said than done.
Normally, he'd just fucking drink away his problems, but he'd been avoiding the Brass Key since Christmas. The thought that he might run into Hunter had crossed his mind more than once... but he'd also risk running into Avery Weston, Eden Fucking Williams, or any number of other people who'd be perfect outlets for sexual frustration. Bryant hadn't specifically asked Marcus to take himself off the market. The fact that the older man hadn't made a single fucking demand - or request - for that matter, was part of the issue between them. It was a straw-grasping gesture in response to an expression on the mortician's face when Marcus had mentioned the others. A desperate reading into of a word choice that might not even pay off in the end, and some masochistic part of himself was playing into that, wholeheartedly. A grand gesture hadn't entirely worked. Maybe a self-punishing one would. Sex was easier to give up than alcohol, at least, so there was that... he just couldn't get his alcohol served to him in the Key, or he was bound to make a mistake. Avery was easy as fuck. All it took was a look. Grab the kid by the back of his neck and he'd melt to his knees. Eden was a surprise. He'd figured that she'd lost his number after their first - and only - hook up, and when she'd texted him to put the offer back on the table it had seemed like life itself was mocking him. He was like an addict in recovery. One day at a time. He'd made it through the first week, but he didn't want to fuck up again and have to start back at the beginning.
Work made it easier to think about other shit, but he hadn't been able to schedule himself for constant shifts every fucking day. So he was stuck with the occasional day like today, wandering in limbo. He wanted badly to go see Bryant. Remind himself why he was driving himself insane for someone who couldn't possibly fucking deserve it. But Bryant was working, more likely than not, and Marcus wasn't going to go beg for attention in person. That he even felt the impulse to do so was enough to sicken him. He knew he should go see Belli. Make sure that his debt was squared and talk to the guy about taking the books back.
Instead, he went to visit the other older man in his life. The one he'd been neglecting by not patronizing the Key with his usual regularity. Marcus doubted that Max could offer him any valuable perspective on any of the bullshit going on in his head, but at least he wouldn't have to drink himself into a stupor alone in his apartment. He knew Wednesdays were lighter evenings at the Key and Ian Kingsley was often left alone on deck on those midweek nights, so there was a chance Max was at home. Marcus figured it was worth a shot, anyway. He sent off a quick text (hey hombre in the fucking neighborhood u home?) and then headed out. If Max didn't answer, he could at least drive around for a while to clear his head.